


I Guess Any Thrill Will Do

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9384599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: Dries fucks and sucks his way through an entire match-day squad for fun (also as some kind of misguided coping mechanism and, maybedefinitely, a little bit out of spite).





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is set immediately after Napoli's 4-2 win over Benfica back in September. Every player in the match-day squad for that game appears in the story. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Unsafe sex, a little bit of a glanced at, not especially well negotiated, power exchange between Marek and Dries.

“Open your eyes.” 

Dries reaches out towards the sound of Marek’s voice. His fingers skid down Marek’s arm into the armband still around Marek’s wrist. Dries hooks his fingers under the fabric and closes his hand into a fist. His knuckles jam against the boney knob of Marek’s wrist. 

“Dries,” Marek says, “Now.”

Dries opens his eyes. Pepe smiles at him and drags his hands down Dries’ sides. His hands are big and warm and with Dries’ eyes closed— 

Pepe slides his thumbs under Dries’ waistband. Dries keeps his eyes open. Stares straight at Pepe. “I want,” Pepe says, still smiling, “To take these off. Can I?” 

Dries lifts his hips. Pepe laughs a little and digs his fingers into Dries’ back. “Is that a yes?” 

Dries licks his lips. Pepe’s gaze flickers down, then back up when Dries says, “Yeah.” 

Pepe smiles and taps his fingers against Dries’ back. “Lift up for me.” 

Dries curls his free hand around the edge of the counter and pushes himself up as best he can. Pepe pulls Dries’ shorts and underwear down. It takes some squirming and shimmying on Dries’ part for them to get them down to his thighs. It’d be easier if he’d let go of Marek. But he doesn’t. And Pepe doesn’t ask him to either. 

Pepe bends down so he can pull Dries’ shorts and underwear down his legs and off of him. Without Pepe’s bulk in front of him, blocking everything else from his view, Dries can see the dressing room again. He can see his teammates staring at him. It’s— He almost closes his eyes again. 

He doesn’t. He re-settles himself on the counter, the slick, lacquered surface is cold against his bare ass, and lets them stare. Then Pepe straightens up and Dries can’t see anyone but him. 

Pepe puts his hands on Dries’ knees. “Dries,” he says, soft and almost gentle, “You doing okay?”

Dries kicks Pepe’s leg because, _fuck that careful, gentle tone of Pepe’s_. That’s not what he wants. “Fine,” he says, “Little cold.”

Pepe laughs. He pulls Dries legs apart and runs his hands up Dries’ thighs. “Well,” he says, “We can’t have that.” He steps closer so he’s in-between Dries’ knees, the sweat-tacky fabric of his jersey rubbing against Dries’ bare legs. He slides his hands up Dries’ sides. Dries likes Pepe’s hands. They’re big and strong and he’s always, in an idle kind of way, wondered what it’d be like to have them on him like this. It’s good. Even better when Pepe pushes his hands up over Dries’ pecs and scrapes his thumbnails over Dries’ nipples. Dries can’t stop the soft, wanting sound he makes. Doesn’t try. “You like that,” Pepe says and it’s not really a question. Pepe smiles and does it again. “Yeah,” Pepe says, when Dries moans, “You like that.” 

Dries does and, when Pepe moves his hands up and skims them along Dries’ shoulders, instead of doing it again, Dries squirms, and says, “Pepe. _Pepe_ , c’mon.” 

“Easy,” Pepe says, rubbing his palms up and down Dries’ upper arms, “We’re just getting started. Just warming you up.” 

Dries can’t even remember being cold. Not now. Not with Pepe’s hands on him. “Tell me,” Pepe says, curling one hand around the nape of Dries’ neck and sliding the other back down Dries’ chest, “What do you want?” He runs his thumb up and down Dries’ throat in slow strokes. “ _Hmm?_ ” He settles his other hand on Dries’ hip and tucks his thumb into the crease of Dries’ thigh. “From me.” He tips his head back. “From all of them.” 

Dries swallows. “I—“ He lets go of Marek’s armband. He curls his hand around Marek’s wrist instead and digs his nails into Marek’s skin. Marek hisses a little but he doesn’t pull away. Dries holds onto Marek’s wrist so tightly that the bones of his wrist dig almost painfully into Dries’ palm. “You should fuck me,” Dries says, pressing his thighs against Pepe’s hips, “Pepe. Okay? You—“ He pauses then says, “And—“ 

Pepe presses his thumb hard against Dries’ hipbone and makes a quick, rough sound. He’s not the only one. There’s a ripple of sound through the dressing room, sharp exhalations of breath, broken bits of words, rustles of movement. Pepe slides his hand up Dries’ neck. He tugs on Dries’ hair, tips Dries’ head back so Dries is looking straight up at him. “You want to get fucked, huh?” he says, his voice gravelly-low, “Dries? Want me - want us - to fuck you?” 

“Yeah,” Dries says, “I do.”

“Okay,” Pepe says. He drags his hand back down Dries’ neck and taps his thumb against Dries’ collarbone. “All right.” Then he lets go of Dries and steps back. 

Pepe smiles, quick and sharp, then he hooks his hands under Dries’ knees and spreads his legs. He pulls Dries forward until the edge of the counter is digging into his ass and only Pepe’s hands on him are keeping him up on it. Pepe steps forward, leans into him, pushes Dries back until his head bumps against the wall and the counter’s pressed, cold and hard, against his lower back. Dries’ hand slips on Marek’s wrist. He tries but he can’t keep ahold of him. Pepe’s warm and solid in-between Dries’ thighs. But Dries needs— “Marek,” he says. And Marek moves until he’s just behind Pepe’s shoulder. Until he’s where Dries can see him. 

“Okay?” Pepe says, soft and low, “Dries.”

“Yeah,” Dries says, looking away from Marek. It’s enough, for now, just to know he’s there. “Yeah. You gonna fuck me or what?” 

Pepe laughs a little. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Pepe reaches out and presses two of his fingers against Dries’ mouth. Dries takes them into his mouth and sucks before Pepe can ask him to, because Pepe will ask him to, but Dries is done waiting. He does it loudly and messily until Pepe’s fingers are spit-slick, until there’s spit on Dries mouth, his chin. He likes the way Pepe stares at him, his mouth open, likes the way he flushes a little while he stares at Dries’ mouth. “Enough,” Pepe says, rough and low, pulling his fingers out Dries’ mouth with a wet pop. Someone says _fuck me_ loudly enough that Dries can pick the words out of the murmuring ebb and flow of sound in the dressing room. 

Pepe moves back just enough so he can reach between them and drag his wet fingers along the crease of of Dries’ thigh. He doesn’t even go near Dries’ dick. It doesn’t matter. Dries is hard already. Has been since— He’s not sure. At least since he asked Pepe to fuck him, asked— Pepe brushes his fingertips around Dries’ hole. His fingertips are cool and damp. His touch makes Dries shudder. Makes his hips jerk up. “Easy,” Pepe murmurs, “Easy,” and rubs his fingertips back and forth across Dries’ hole, just barely pressing down. 

“Pepe,” Dries says, “Pepe. _Please_.” And Pepe presses his fingertips into him It’s— “Pepe. C’mon.” 

“I need— ” Pepe says. He pulls his fingertips out of Dries and looks away. Dries squirms. Misses his touch even if it was hardly anything. “I don’t want to—“ Pepe says. He’s not talking to Dries. 

“Here,” someone, Insigne, maybe, says from somewhere behind Pepe. Pepe holds out his hand. Dries hears the wet squelch of something being squeezed into Pepe’s hand. “Thanks,” Pepe says. The tube of—whatever it is—gets tossed onto the counter next to Dries. 

But Dries doesn’t pay attention to that, doesn’t— Because Pepe’s looking at him again. Pepe eases one slick finger inside him. He does it slowly. Too slowly. “Pepe,” he says, “C’mon.” It feels good. It does. But— 

Pepe smiles a little. “More?” 

Dries nods. “Please. _Please_ , just—” 

“Okay.” Pepe says. But he doesn’t go faster. He gives Dries more. And _more_. But he doesn’t rush. He fucks Dries with his fingers until Dries is sweating and squirming and ready to come before Pepe, before _anyone_ , gets their dick in him. 

“Pepe. _Pepe_ ,” Dries says, gasps, “You’ve gotta, c’mon.” 

Pepe pulls his fingers out of Dries. “You ready,” he says. His voice is strained and hoarse. And Dries would care about that, maybe, if he wasn’t so desperate, so— 

“Yeah,” he says, “Fuck me. C’mon.” 

Pepe gets his dick out. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated. He runs his still slick hand up and down his dick. Quick. One stroke. Like he doesn’t want to linger. Like he’s as close to the edge as Dries is. “Okay,” he says, “Okay.” 

They’re not in the best position. Not really. And it takes Pepe a few tries to get them lined up right. But then— _Fuck_. Then, when he gets it, when he pushes into Dries. Dries doesn’t care about any of that. Not the edge of the counter digging into him, not the way he’s folded over himself, jammed up against the wall. Because Pepe’s pushing into him, filling him up in the best way. His dick’s not really slick enough. And it hurts, burns, but Dries doesn’t care. Because Pepe’s leaning over him, pushing into him until he’s all the way inside him, until Dries can feel his balls slap against his ass. “Dries,” he says. He’s sweating. Dries can see the wet shine of it on his upper lip. At his temples. “Dries, can I—“

“Yeah,” Dries says, “Fuck me. C’mon.” 

Pepe plants a quick, sloppy kiss on Dries’ cheek. Then he pushes up a little and gives Dries what he wants. 

Pepe fucks like he knows what he’s doing. “I always,” Dries says, reaching up and sliding his hands along Pepe’s shoulders, “Thought you’d be good at this.” 

Pepe smiles. “Oh, yeah?” he says, breathless, “And I am, aren’t I?” 

Dries laughs a little. “Yeah,” he says, because Pepe really, _really_ is, “Yeah.” 

Pepe’s going to come soon, though, he’s panting and his strokes are getting jerkier. “Shit,” Pepe says. He ducks his head. “Dries. _Dries_. I—“ He rears up. Dries’ hands slip off his shoulders. Pepe starts to pull out of Dries but he’s already coming, wet and warm, inside Dries. He’s still coming when he pulls out. Spurts onto Dries’ balls, his dick “ _Shit_ ,” he says, “Dries, I—“ His chest is heaving. “I—“ He skims his fingers up Dries stomach, right along the side of his dick.

“Don’t,” Dries says, “Pepe. I—I don’t— Don’t want to come. Not—“ 

Pepe curls his hand along Dries’ side. “Not?” He says. 

“Not,” Dries says, “Not yet.” 

Pepe rubs his thumb along Dries’ ribs. “What _do_ you want? _Hmm?_ ” His voice is rough and he still sounds out of breath. “Want to get fucked some more?” 

“Yeah,” Dries says. 

“Does it matter who?” Pepe says.

Dries shakes his head. “Just—just want—“ _More_. That’s what he wants. Just _more_. Until he can’t think. Can’t— 

Pepe smiles and pats Dries’ chest. “ _Easy_ ,” he says, “We’ll give you what you want, ah, Dries.” He reaches up and smoothes Dries’ hair up off his forehead. “Don’t worry.” Then he steps back.

Dries barely has time to push himself up a little, to check that Marek’s still there, still standing right in Dries’ line of sight, before Pepe’s back. He’s not alone. He has Milik with him, his arm slung over Milik’s shoulders. Milik’s flushed and fiddling with the edge of his jersey. He smiles at Dries, close-mouthed and tentative. “We picked Milik to fuck you next,” Pepe says, giving Milik a push. Milik stumbles forward until he’s between Dries’ knees. Pepe slaps Milik’s back. “Have fun, kid.” 

Dries would laugh, because _only Pepe_ , but Milik looks half-distraught, half-desperate. His gaze skitters over Dries like he’s not sure where he wants to look, where he _should_ look. Dries pushes himself up some more. “Hey,” he says, soft and low, reaching out and tugging on Milik’s jersey, “Is that what you want, Milik? You want to fuck me?” Milik exhales, quick and rough, but doesn’t say anything. Dries flattens his hand against Milik’s stomach. “You can,” he says, “If you want to.” 

“I,” Milik says, looking straight at Dries for the first time, “I’ve never…” He trails off.

Dries smiles a little. “But,” he says, “You want to?” He makes it a question but he already knows the answer.

Milik nods, jerky and fast, and says, “Yes, I— Yes.” 

“Okay,” Dries says, hooking his fingers into Milik’s waistband and pulling him a little closer, “I’m going to—“ He starts tugging Milik’s shorts down. “Okay?” Milik nods so Dries keeps going.

Milik’s hard already and, when Dries curls his hand around his dick, he says, “Oh. _Oh_ ,” then something slurring and rough in Polish. 

“You like that?” Dries says.

“Yes,” Milik says quickly, “Yes.” 

Dries holds Milik’s dick loosely in his fist. “You still want to fuck me? We could just—“ He tightens his grips and slides his hand up and down Milik’s dick. “Like this.” 

Milik swallows. “No,” he says, shaky, like he’s not quite sure, then, “No,” surer and harder. He pauses. “I— It is nice, but, ah, I—“ 

“Okay,” Dries says. He fumbles his other hand along the countertop until he finds the tube Insigne had tossed there. It’s actually, to his surprise, lube, which, _Christ_ , who knows why Insigne’s bringing that to games. He lets go of Milik, who sighs a little at the loss of contact, and squeezes some into his palm. He slicks up Milik’s dick. “You ready?” he says. 

“I,” Milik says, biting his lip, “Um—“ 

“For Christ’s sake, just stick your fucking dick in him already, Milik,” someone - Dries can’t pick out who - calls. 

Dries smiles and says, “It really is all you have to do.” 

“Right,” Milik says, nodding, “Right. Okay,” more to himself than to Dries. He shuffles a little closer. 

Dries leans back and brings his knees up and spreads his legs. “That’s it,” he says, softly, “Come here. Come fuck me.” Milik curls his hand around his dick, lines himself up, and just nudges the head of his dick against Dries’ hole. “That’s it,” Dries murmurs, “You’re doing fine. Just push right inside me.” 

Milik bites his lip and presses, slow and steady, into Dries. Dries watches his face, watches his mouth drop open, the way his eyes go wide. “Oh.” Milik says, when he’s finally all the way inside Dries, “ _Oh_.” He smiles at Dries, bright and so amazed, that Dries has to smile back. 

“Just like that,” Dries says, “Now move, ‘kay? Fuck me.” 

Milik nods. “Okay,” he says, “Yes. Okay.” 

He’s slow, at first, and too tentative. “You can,” Dries says, “Go harder. Faster. S’fine.” And Milik does. He never quite finds a rhythm but it still feels good. Dries likes to be fucked, likes the stretch and the full feeling of having someone’s dick in him. He doesn’t need it to be perfect to get off on it. And with Milik, it’s almost enough to watch Milik’s face. He’s so gratifyingly in awe of Dries, of the way Dries is making him feel. And then there’s the sounds he makes, desperate and wanting, like he can’t get enough of Dries. 

He doesn't last long. Dries didn’t really expect him to. Soon, he gasps out, “Mertens. _Mertens_. I— I am—“ and comes inside Dries. He leans over Dries for a moment, while his dick softens inside Dries, his chest heaving while he tries to catch his breath. “I,” he says and smiles, slow and wondering, “that—that was—“ 

Dries smiles a little. “Yeah,” he says, “M’good, aren’t I?”

Milik’s mouth drops open then he starts to laugh, his whole body shaking with it. But, when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, you are,” it’s artlessly sincere. 

Then Marek’s there, at Milik’s back, saying, “Enough of that or he’ll never shut up about how good a fuck he is.” 

If Dries didn’t think he’d topple over, he’d flip Marek off. He settles for saying, “It’d all be true.” 

That sets Milik off laughing again. Marek just rolls his eyes and says, soft and low, to Milik, “Easy when you pull out of him, okay?” Milik nods then pulls out of Dries with an excess of care. 

Marek tugs Milik back and pushes him into the crowd behind them. Jorginho reaches out and catches Milik’s arm, pulls him in, and slaps his back. Says something to Milik which Dries can’t hear but which makes Allan and Insigne, who are standing on either side of Jorginho, laugh and Milik blush.

They’re all closer now, his teammates, so close that the closest of them are maybe a meter or less away. Marek’s stayed just in front of him. He reaches out and runs his fingers along Dries’ thigh. “What do you want?” he says, casually pushing two of his fingers inside of Dries, “ _Hmm_?” Dries lifts his hips. “Want to get fucked again?” Marek says. 

He’s fucking Dries with his fingers, slow, shallow thrusts, more tease than anything else, but distracting enough that it takes Dries a moment to answer. “Yeah. _Fuck_. Marek. Yeah.”

“Who?” Marek asks. 

And Dries doesn’t care. Really he doesn’t. “I—I don’t— Marek. Just—“ 

Marek glances back. “How about Maksimović?” Dries looks past Marek. Maksimović is standing just beyond Marek’s left shoulder. Someone - Zieliński - has his hand in Maksimović’s shorts. But Maksimović is staring right at Dries. 

“Sure,” Dries says, “Yeah.” 

They both step forward, Zieliński and Maksimović, stumbling a little, tangled together but seemingly unwilling to be separated. Marek pulls his fingers out of Dries. Dries whines and squirms a little at the loss of them. Marek just pats his thigh and steps to the side.

Maksimović takes another step forward until he - and Zieliński who’s still pressed limpet-like to Maksimović’s back - are standing between Dries’ thighs. “I, uh,” he says, “I can?” 

“Yeah. Yeah,” Dries says, more impatiently than he means to, “C’mon.” 

It’s Zieliński who pulls Maksimović’s shorts down, gets his dick out. Maksimović says, “Should I?” reaching out towards where Dries had tossed the lube. 

Dries shakes his head. “Nah.” He’s stretched and wet with lube and come. And he just wants to get fucked again. Like _now_. “Just— Just, c’mon.” 

Maksimović nods, jerky and quick. “Okay,” he says, “Okay.” And Zieliński takes one of Maksimović’s hands and curls it, along with his own hand, around Maksimović’s dick and murmurs something to him that makes him shudder. 

Maksimović curls his other hand around Dries’ arm just above his elbow. Then he and Zieliński line Maksimović’s dick up so he can push into Dries. Maksimović isn’t especially careful. He just shoves into Dries with one quick thrust. His dick is big, long and thick, a match for the rest of him. And Dries gasps a little when he pushes inside him. “Mertens?” Maksimović says, a little breathlessly, “Okay?” 

Dries nods. “Yeah,” he says, “Just—“ Dries takes a slow, shuddering breath. “Fuck me, yeah?” 

Maksimović squeezes Dries arm and smiles a little. “Okay,” and starts to move. Maksimović fucks hard, each thrust makes Dries slip and slide on the counter. He smacks his head against the wall a few times. But he doesn’t fucking _care_. Because it’s so _good_. 

Zieliński stays with Maksimović, keeps his hands on Maksimović’s hips, and murmurs to him the whole time, soft, slurring words Dries can’t understand. When Maksimović’s balls-deep in Dries, Zieliński’s knuckles jam into the backs of Dries’ thighs. And, when Dries slips a little too far over the edge of the counter, it’s Zieliński who steadies him, pushes him back. It’s a little like both of them are fucking him. 

“You,” Dries, tries to say to Zieliński, grasping for the words that seem to be sliding away from him, fucked right out of his head, “Zieliński, you can, next, if—“ It comes out garbled. And Zieliński doesn’t answer. But Dries doesn’t really care. Not right now. 

Maksimović doesn’t come inside Dries. He grunts, says Dries’ name, then Zieliński’s, and pulls out of Dries. And, _fuck_ , if Dries doesn’t miss his dick as soon as he pulls it out of him. He whines a little, tries to lift his hips. Maksimović’s dick slides wetly along the the crease of Dries’ thigh. Zieliński grabs Maksimović dick, strokes him, once, twice, his sweaty fingers drag along Dries’ skin, nudge against his balls, his dick. Maksimović comes on Zieliński’s third stroke. He gasps out Zieliński’s name and squeezes Dries’ arm hard enough to hurt.

Maksimović slumps back against Zieliński, who, really, isn’t big enough to hold his dead weight up. But Marek steps in and helps and the three of them stagger back. Leaving Dries gasping and slumped on the counter, trying to catch his breath, trying to— _Fuck_. He’d almost come with Maksimović. _Almost._ And now he’s empty and aching, Maksimović’s come cooling on his skin, the place where Maksimović’d dug his fingers into his arm still throbbing. 

Marek comes back and stands between Dries’ knees. “Does,” Dries says, and it comes out thready and cracking, “Zieliński?” 

Marek shakes his head. He settles his hands on Dries’ thighs. Dries shivers a little. He’s so on edge that the warm weight of Marek’s hands feels like— Like _more_. Too much. “You want,” Marek says, rubbing his thumbs up and down the inside of Dries’ thighs, digging his fingers in and holding Dries still when he shudders, lifts his hips, “More? Want to get fucked again?” 

“You don’t,” Dries says, shifting restlessly, “have to keep asking. Just— Just— _Fuck_.” 

Marek’s mouth tightens into a flat line and he digs his thumbs hard into Dries’ thighs, his nails scoring Dries skin.“Yes,” he says, sharp and clipped, “I do.”

And Dries know that. He does. Somewhere. But it’s lost amid the sparking heat under his skin. The _wanting_. “Okay,” he says, as close to an apology as he can get, “Marek. Okay.” 

Marek smiles a little and rubs his thumbs, feather-light, over the tingling heat of the scratches he’d just left along Dries’ skin. And he smiles wider when Dries can’t stop the low, shuddering sounds that spill out of him. “Tell me,” Marek says, “Do you want to get fucked again?” 

“Yes,” Dries says, then, in more apology, “Please. Marek. _Please_.” 

Marek leans in and kisses him, firm and lingering, then says, “Okay.”

Dries steals another kiss before Marek can pull away and says, “You, uh, you pick, ‘kay?” 

Marek nips Dries’ bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, and says, “All right,” then pulls back. 

Dries looks out at his teammates. Insigne’s right in his direct line of sight. He’s flushed, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his face shining with sweat. 

It’s hot, sauna-humid, in the dressing room. Dries can feel sweat sliding down his neck, pooling at his lower back, dripping down his face. Dries licks his lips. Insigne’s mouth falls open. Dries licks his lips again, tastes the salt-sharp tang of the sweat beading along his upper lip. He sucks on his lower lip and feels the aching thrum from the sharp bite of Marek’s teeth. Insigne’s mouth forms around words. Too low for Dries to hear. Someone else - Jorginho, maybe, says, “Fucking— _Christ._ ” 

Dries turns his head, to see if he can catch who’s speaking, but there’s just a quick blur of faces, then Marek, coming towards him. He has Hysaj with him, his arm slung across Hysaj’s shoulders. Marek says something to Hysaj, tips his head close to his and whispers in his ear. Dries can see Hysaj’s breath stutter, can see it in the way his shoulders jerk up and the way his chest heaves. Then Hysaj steps forward. 

Hysaj stops right in front of Dries, hesitates for a moment, just stares at Dries. Dries stares back. Hysaj’s hair is in disarray. Some clumps, stiff with gel, are still stubbornly in place, some are sticking up, like Hysaj’d run his hand through it. His jersey’s pushed up, rumpled, streaked with dirt. And his shorts are pushed down, low on his hips, like— Like he - or someone else - had shoved his hand in them, dragging them down. He shakes his head a little. Like he’s trying to clear it. Then he takes another step forward, stopping right between Dries’ knees.

He’s quiet. Doesn’t say anything. There’s just the sound of his breathing, of Dries’ breathing, and the murmuring rumble of sounds from their teammates behind them. He pushes his shorts down. He’s hard. His dick jutting up in front of the dark thatch of his pubic hair. He leans in and reaches past Dries to grab the lube of the counter. He squirts some into his palm then tosses it back onto the counter. Then slicks his dick up. Quick. One stroke up and down. Rubs his palm over the head of his dick. But, when he pushes into Dries, he goes slow. And Dries wants to arch up into the slow, aching stretch of it. 

Once Hysaj’s dick is all the way inside of Dries, they’re both panting. Hysaj slides his hand along Dries’ thigh, hooks it under Dries’ knee, and lifts his leg up, angles it away from Dries’ body. “This,” he says, his voice low and rough, “Is okay?” 

“Yeah,” Dries says, nodding, “Yeah. S’good.” 

Hysaj smiles a little. “That’s good,” he says. He slides his other hand, which is still slick with lube, along Dries’ other thigh. He presses down just next to Dries’ knee, pinning Dries’ leg to the counter, holding him open. “This?” he says. 

It’s a bit of a stretch, enough to make Dries’ thighs ache, but he likes being caught in Hysaj’s hands, being held open so he can be fucked. “Yeah,” Dries says, “Yeah.” Hysaj smiles, wider and bolder, and starts to move. 

Hysaj can fuck. He hits the right angle, gets into a good rhythm. If he hasn’t done this before, Dries will dye his hair to match Insigne’s. It’s easy to get lost in the feel of it. Pleasure humming, _buzzing_ , across his skin. Settling like a desperate ache low in his belly. Curling along his spine. He rocks up into it. Wants more, more, _more_. 

Hysaj’s sweat-slick hands slip along Dries’ skin. He digs his fingers into Dries’ thighs. He keeps his grip, his nails scoring Dries’ skin. The hot, scraping flashes of pain, they’re— _Fuck_ Dries arches up, bangs his head against the wall, and comes in quick, jerking pulses that shake his whole body. 

Hysaj falters. Dries reaches up blindly, his fingers skittering across Hysaj’s chest. “Don’t,” Dries says, grabbing a fistful of Hysaj’s jersey, “Don’t stop, ‘kay? S’okay. Keep fucking me. C’mon.” Hysaj bites his lower lip, then nods, and goes back to fucking him. It’s— Dries still likes it. Likes the feel of it. Likes watching Hysaj’s face when he comes. Likes the way he digs his fingers hard into Dries thighs and chokes out Dries’ name. 

Hysaj’s careful, when he’s done. He pulls out of Dries slowly and gently and settles Dries’ legs back into a more comfortable position. “Can you,” Dries says, pushing himself up a little, “Uh, get Marek?” 

Hysaj smiles a little and pats Dries’ knee. “Sure. Okay.” He’s— _Sweet_. Dries never knows what to do with sweet. 

“Hey,” Dries says, impulsively reaching out and tugging on Hysaj’s jersey, “C’mere a sec.” Hysaj’s eyes go wide but he lets Dries tug him down. Dries kisses him, soft and fleeting, and Hysaj’s mouth opens on a sigh. Dries kisses him again, slower, runs his tongue along Hysaj’s lower lip. “Thanks,” he says, against Hysaj’s mouth, then lets him go. Hysaj stumbles back. He’s blushing. _Blushing_. Dries almost wants to laugh because Hysaj fucks too well to blush at a kiss. But he is. And Dries stares, fascinated, until Hysaj turns away and is pulled into the crowd of their teammates. 

Then Marek’s there, nudging his way in-between Dries’ thighs and saying, “Hey.” He reaches up and rubs his thumb across Dries’ mouth, because Marek can be possessive in the weirdest fucking ways. Dries smiles and Marek does it again, more roughly, and pushes the tip of his thumb between Dries’ lips. Then he curves his hand along Dries’ check and says, “You doing okay?”

Dries nuzzles his palm. “M’good, Marek, so good.” 

Marek smiles a little. “Insigne wants—“

“Okay,” Dries says.

Marek laughs. “You don’t even know what he wants.”

“He can have it,” Dries says.

Marek lifts his eyebrows. “That,” he says, low and serious, “What _you_ want?”

Dries wants _more_. He’s still buzzing from coming. Still high off the feeling of it. But he still wants _more_. More and more until— “Yeah,” he says.

Marek slides his hand under Dries’ chin, tips his head back with his knuckles. He stares down at a Dries for a second then says, “Okay,” and kisses Dries. 

“Stay,” Dries murmurs against Marek’s mouth, “Close, please.” 

Marek kisses him again, slow and thorough, and it’s like the wet heat of his mouth is seeping into Dries, sliding into him like warm honey. When he pulls away, Dries feels dizzy. “Okay,” Marek says. And he shifts away, but only as far as Dries’ side. He’s close enough that his elbow nudges against Dries’ knee. 

Marek must signal Insigne somehow because then Insigne’s there, bounding across the meter or so between them and skidding to a halt in front of Dries. He rocks back on his heels and smiles, broad and bright, at Dries. “Mertens, _Christ_ ,” he says, “Look at you, ah?” He reaches out and skims his fingertips through the splatters of come on Dries’ stomach. The side of his hand just brushes Dries’ dick. Dries shudders a little. 

“You,” Dries says, “ _mmm_ , you can still fuck me. If you…”

Insigne tips his head to the side. “What if—“ He drags his fingertips up Dries’ chest. “I wanted—” He taps his fingertips against Dries’ mouth. “—you to suck my dick, eh, Mertens?”

Dries parts his lips and licks Insigne’s fingertips. He can taste the salt-bitter taste of come on Insigne’s skin. He sucks Insigne’s fingertips into his mouth and Insigne groans, low and rough. Dries tips his head back and lets Insigne’s fingers slip out of his mouth. “Okay,” he says. He kicks Insigne’s knee. “But you’ve got to help me down.” 

Insigne steps closer and holds out his arms. Dries considers that then decides to settle his hands on Insigne’s shoulders instead and use them to brace himself while he attempts to hop down. He ends up half-falling, half crashing into Insigne. “ _Shit_ ,” Insigne says, “Mertens—“ and the same time Marek says, “For Christ’s sake, Dries.” 

Between the two of them they get him upright. Dries’s legs ache and he feels wobbly on his feet. He can feel come and lube sliding down his thighs. Marek’s left his arm around Dries’ waist and Dries fights the urge to slump into Marek’s side. Insigne’s watching him, his eyes wide, his expression a little panicked. “You all right?” Marek murmurs. 

Dries nods. “M’fine,” he says. It’s mostly true.

Marek huffs a little. “Okay,” he says.” 

Insigne shifts on his feet. “Ah,” he says slowly, “You don’t…”

“Oh,” Dries says, “So you don’t want your dick sucked, Insigne?” Insigne opens his mouth. Closes it again. Like he’s not sure what to say. Dries reaches out and pokes his chest. “Yes?” he says, “Or no?” 

Insigne turns away from Dries, looks towards Marek. “Look,” Dries says, “at me. M’the one who’s going to put his mouth on your dick.”

Insigne jerks his head back. “Yes,” he says and the word come out rushed and desperate.

Dries smiles. “Was that so hard?” he says.

Insigne rolls his shoulders back and shifts his feet apart. He tips his chin up, smirks, and says, “Well, Mertens, are you going to do it? Or just talk about it?”

Getting on his knees isn’t the easiest thing Dries’ ever done. The floor is hard and there’s no position which makes kneeling on it comfortable. Marek settles his hand on Dries’ shoulder. Dries doesn’t have to look to know he’s close, which, _good_. That’s where Dries wants him, where he _needs_ him. 

Dries looks up at Insigne. Dries licks his lips and Insigne makes a soft, rough sound. Dries smiles and says, “Well? Come on.” 

Insigne blinks, like he’s coming out of a daze, then starts pushing down his shorts. His haste makes him clumsy and he gets his hands tangled in his jersey, but eventually he manages to get his dick out. He hesitates, then, like he’s forgotten his own earlier brashness. Dries could give him more shit but, instead, he leans in and swipes his tongue across the head of his dick. Insigne’s hips stutter forward and his dick slides wetly along Dries’ cheek. “ _Christ_ ,” he says, low and rough, “Mertens. _Mertens_.” 

Dries turns and catches the tip of Insigne’s dick in his mouth. He lavishes attention on the tip but doesn’t take anymore of it into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, Dries can see Insigne reach out his hand then drop it back to his side. Dries lets Insigne’s dick slip out of his mouth with a wet pop. He looks up. “You can,” he says, tipping his chin up towards Insigne’s hand, “If you want.” 

“Yeah?” Insigne says and his voice cracks a little.

“Yeah,” Dries says and puts his mouth back on Insigne’s dick. Then Dries waits a second just to see what Lorenzo will do. 

It takes him a moment but Insigne reaches out and carefully settles his hand on Dries’ head. Dries sucks lightly on tip of his dick but doesn’t move his mouth down. Insigne curls his fingers into Dries’s hair and tentatively pulls him forward. Dries lets him. And that’s all the encouragement Insigne seems to need. 

Insigne’s not rough. Mostly he just lets Dries do what he wants. But he keeps his hand entangled in Dries’ hair. The first time Dries pushes his mouth all the way down his dick, he tightens his hand in Dries’s hair, pulls hard enough to sting a little, and says, “Shit. _Christ_ , Mertens.” And, when Dries goes to pull back, Insigne, just for a second, pushes him back down, before letting him pull back. 

Dries pulls all the way off Insigne’s dick. “You can,” he says, letting the spit-slick tip of Insigne’s dick nudge against his open mouth, “Just—“ He leans in, just lets the tip of Insigne’s dick slip between his lips, then pulls back. “Take whatever you want.” 

Insigne takes a quick, rasping breath and flexes his hand in Dries’ hair. For a second, Dries thinks he’s not going to do anything, then he tightens his grip and pulls Dries forward. He fucks Dries’ mouth with quick, shallow thrusts. Then he pulls Dries forward and stops with only half his dick in Dries’ mouth. “Can I—“ He gasps out, “Ah, Mertens, _shit_.” Dries pushes forward, until he feels the tip of Insigne’s dick nudge his throat. “Fuck,” Insigne says, “ _Fuck_. Yeah. Just like that. _Christ_.”

Insigne’s rougher after that. Comes close to gagging Dries a few times. Dries doesn’t mind. He’s always liked it, having his mouth stretched around someone’s dick, the desperate, gasping feeling that comes when someone just fucks his mouth. 

Insigne pulls Dries off his dick and saliva strings between Dries’ mouth and Insigne’s dick. Slides down Dries’ chin. Dries takes a couple quick, shuddering breaths. “Mertens, ah,” Insigne says, and he sounds as out of breath as Dries feels, “If, ah, if I have Callejon come here, would you—“ He pushes his dick against Dries’ mouth. 

Dries turns a little, so Insigne’s dick’s nudging his cheek, and says, “Yeah,” he says, “Sure. Bring whoever you want over here and—“ He turns back, lets Insigne’s dick slip back into his mouth. 

Insigne pushes Dries back onto his dick then turns his head and hollers, “Callejon. Callejon. C’mere. Mertens’s going to suck your dick.” There’s some wolf-whistles and some shouting. Then Callejon’s there next to Insigne. Insigne reaches out, hooks his free arm around Callejon’s waist, and drags him closer. “C’mere. C’mon,” he says. 

Callejon smiles a little. He looks more embarrassed than anything else but he lets Insigne haul him closer. Insigne grabs a fistful of Callejon’s jersey and pulls it up. “C’mon,” he says. 

Callejon glances at Dries then pushes his shorts down his hips. Insigne barely waits for Callejon to get his dick out before he pulls Dries off his dick and drags him over to Callejon’s dick. Dries has to push himself up a little. It shifts his weight more heavily to his knees, grinds them into the floor. Insigne ruffles his hair and says, “All right, Mertens, go on.” 

When Dries puts his mouth on Callejon’s dick, Callejon chokes out something in Spanish. And Dries— Dries _knows_ those words. He— He closes his eyes. The accent is all wrong but he— 

Marek lets go of Dries’ shoulder and fists his hand in Dries’ hair. Pulls hard enough for the sting to make Dries’ eyes water. “Come on,” he says, rough and low, “You can do better. Open your eyes.” Dries focuses on the prickles of pain sparking along his scalp and opens his eyes. Marek pushes him forward until he chokes on Callejon’s dick. And that’s better because instead of focusing on what Callejon’s saying, the words tumbling out of his mouth staccato-quick, Dries is focusing on breathing through his nose. “That’s better,” Marek murmurs, gentling his grip, “That’s it.” He lets go of Dries and runs his fingertips along the nape of Dries’ neck. “There you go,” he says. He re-settles his hand on Dries’ shoulder. And Dries turns his attention to sucking Callejon’s dick in earnest. 

Insigne steals him back after awhile. Callejon doesn’t protest. He seems content to let Insigne push Dries back and forth between them. Dries likes it. He doesn’t have to think. Just has to keep his mouth open. Let them do what they want. Let them use his mouth. 

Insigne comes first. Dries doesn’t even have his dick his mouth. Insigne leans heavily on Dries’ head, says, “ _Shit_. Mertens. _Fuck_ ,” and comes all over Dries’ cheek. His come slides, warm and sticky, down Dries’ neck. He ruffles Dries’ hair then steps back. 

Insigne pushes someone into his place but Callejon skims his palm over Dries’ head and says, “Mertens, I, ah— _Oh_.“ and then comes in Dries’ mouth so Dries doesn’t look to see who it is. Dries swallows because it’s the easiest thing to do then pulls back and lets Callejon’s dick slide out of his mouth. Callejon smiles and pats Dries’ cheek then he’s gone too.    
Dries turns to see who Insigne’d pushed at him. It’s Giaccherini. He looks like he doesn’t really know what he’s doing standing there. Dries shuffles closer to him. The floor scrapes against his knees and shins but he doesn’t have to go far. He sits back on his heels. “Do you want—“ he says, leaning in to rub his cheek against Giaccherini’s crotch. Giaccherini’s hard. He tips his head back, stares up at Giaccherini.

Giaccherini reaches out and tentatively settles his hand on Dries’ head. “Yes,” he says, “Okay. If you…” Then he just stands there, like he’s waiting for Dries. So Dries tugs his shorts down and gets his dick out. Giaccherini just lets Dries do his own thing. He runs his fingers through Dries’ hair and murmurs to him a little, too low for Dries to really make out what he’s saying. He tightens his hold on Dries’s hair “Mertens,” he says, “I, ah, can I—“ He pulls out of Dries’ mouth. Fists his hand around his dick

It takes Dries a second to realize what he’s asking for. “Yeah,” he says, “Sure. C’mon.” Giaccherini tips Dries’ head back. Dries closes his eyes and Giaccherini comes on his face. Streaks of come land on Dries’ cheeks and chin and mouth and just under his right eye. Giaccherini lets go of him. Dries opens his eyes. Giaccherini’s already turned away. 

But Pepe’s back and this time he has Albiol with him, his arm slung around Albiol’s neck. Dries isn’t sure Albiol should really be up and walking around but there he is in front of Dries. Pepe reaches down and swipes his hand roughly along Dries’ right cheek then his left. “Christ, Dries, look at you. What a mess, ah?” Dries shrugs. Pepe isn’t wrong. Pepe laughs a little and wipes his hand on his shorts. He ruffles Dries’ hair. “Now, Dries,” he says, pushing Albiol forward a little, “I want you to do something special for our injured friend here.” 

Albiol rolls his eyes and says, “Ignore him, ah? It doesn’t have to be special.” 

“You saying my blow jobs aren’t special, Albiol?” Dries says.

Albiol tips his head back and laughs. Insigne calls out. “I think they’re pretty fucking special, Mertens,” which makes the whole room laugh. Even Marek. 

“Well,” Albiol says, when the room quiets down again, “Give me one, then, and I’ll tell you what I think.” 

“All right,” Dries says, pushing himself up off his heels, “Get out your dick and I will.”

Albiol starts pushing down his shorts. “All right, Mertens,” he says, “Let’s go.”

Albiol’s dick’s too big for Dries to get the whole thing in his mouth but he uses every other trick he knows along with some he’d half-forgotten. He reduces Albiol to wordless, panting, nonsense sounds. 

When Albiol starts to come, he tries to pull out of Dries’ mouth. Dries reaches up, fists his hand in the back of Albiol’s jersey, and holds him in place. He swallows then lets go of Albiol and pulls back. Sits back down on his heels. He watches Albiol sway and thinks, if Pepe weren’t holding onto him, Albiol would fall right down on his ass. 

Dries rubs his hand across his mouth. His lips are swollen and tingling and his jaw aches when he smiles as wide as he can and says, “So, Albiol, special enough for you?” 

Albiol just blinks at him and opens then closes his mouth then opens it again and closes it again. When he finally says something, it’s a rough, slurring rush of Spanish that Dries has no hope of understanding. Pepe laughs and roughly pats Albiol’s chest. “He says, any more special and he’d be dead.” Dries blows Albiol a kiss. Albiol smiles, slow and pleased, and reaches down to ruffle Dries’ hair. 

Pepe blows Dries a kiss and says, “I’ve got take this one—“ He pats Albiol’s chest. “—to sit back down. You keep—“ He waves his hand to indicate— _Sucking dick._ Probably. Knowing Pepe.

Pepe steers Albiol away, their teammates part to let them through. Marek runs his fingertips along Dries’ collarbone and says, “You doing okay?” 

Dries aches. The floor is hard against his knees and his shins. He feels sticky and grimy. And all he can taste is come, slick on the roof of his mouth, the back of his tongue. But there’s a strange exhilaration running under his skin. Every time he makes another person come it’s like a spark, a thrill he can’t quite explain. He’s always gotten off on sucking dick, on being watched but this— This is _fucking something else_. Something he could get lost in. And he wants to be lost. Right now he _needs_ to be lost. 

Dries tips his head back so he can look up at Marek. So Marek can _see_ him. “M’good,” he says. 

Marek touches his fingertips to Dries’ mouth, traces them along his lips. “What,” he says, soft and intimately low, “Do you want now?” 

“I want,” Dries says, “Want just to suck off whoever else wants, to just—“ He doesn’t know how to say it. Marek’s the one who talks, who takes Dries’ jumbled cravings and lays them out in achingly explicit detail. “To just, _let_ them. No asking. Just— Just…” He trails off. 

“ _Hmm,_ ,” Marek says, trailing his fingers down Dries’ neck, back along the line of his collarbone, “You want them to use you, fuck your mouth? Is that it?” 

Dries swallows because, _yes, that_. “Yeah. That’s— Marek, _please_.” 

“Okay,” Marek says, settling his hand back on Dries’ shoulder, “But, you’re going to listen to me and, if I think you need to stop, we’re going to stop. Okay?” Dries nods. Marek squeezes his shoulder. “Say it for me, Dries, tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” Dries says, “I understand.” 

“All right,” Marek says, tapping his thumb against Dries’ back, “And you, say stop, and it all stops, okay?” 

“Okay,” Dries says then drops his head down, stares at the floor, and waits for whatever comes next. 

Marek slides his hand over so his thumb is curled over the nape of Dries’ neck and the edge of his hand nudges against Dries’ throat. “All right,” Marek says, in his captain’s tone, the one that carries over half the pitch, “You guys heard him. C’mon.” 

There’s rush of movement and some murmured conversations Dries can’t really make out. He keeps his head bowed but soon he can see a lot of his teammates’ feet. Some are still wearing their boots, some are wearing sandals. Marek strokes his thumb along the bended curve of Dries’ neck. “Look up,” he says. 

Dries looks up. He’s surrounded. Koulibaly’s just to his right. Ghoulam’s right in front of him. And Gabbiadini and Maggio are just to his left. Maggio has his arm draped across Gabbiadini’s shoulders. Gabbiadini’s fiddling with the bottom of his jersey and looking everywhere but at Dries. The rest of them are staring right at Dries. 

“Okay,” Marek says. And Koulibaly reaches out and slides his fingers into Dries’ hair. 

Dries takes a slow, deep breath, then licks his lips and smiles up at Koulibaly. Koulibaly smiles back and says, “Are you ready?” Dries nods and Koulibaly starts pushing down his shorts. 

Koulibaly is gentle with him. He curls his hand along the back of Dries’ head and holds him in place but he mostly lets Dries set the pace. He doesn’t let Dries pull back though, keeps him right up close to his dick. The first time he thrusts into Dries’ mouth he stops and says softly, “Mertens?” Dries leans forward, lets Koulibaly’s dick slide deeper into his mouth. 

“Take,” Marek says, “What you want.” 

Koulibaly’s gaze flickers up, towards Marek, then back to Dries. Then he starts fucking Dries’ mouth. He’s still gentle. Fucks Dries’ mouth with quick, shallow strokes. His breathing speeds up and he talks to Dries, nothing Dries can understand, slurring, lilting words. Then his grip tightens in Dries’ hair and he comes, not in Dries’ mouth but on his mouth, his chin. He leaves Dries a mess with come sliding down his chin, along his neck. 

He rubs his hand roughly along Dries’ head, scratches his nails along Dries scalp. Then he nudges Dries’ temple with his knuckles and turns him towards Ghoulam. 

Ghoulam reaches out and fists his hand in Dries’ hair. “Damn, Mertens,” he says, dragging Dries forward, making Dries shuffle forward a little, “Look at you.” He bumps the head of his dick against Dries’ mouth. It slips along Dries’ come-slick lips. Dries opens his mouth. And Ghoulam pushes him all the way down his dick. He holds Dries there with his face pressed against Ghoulam’s stomach. Dries can’t breathe— Can’t— His jaw aches and the feeling— Like he’s on the edge of choking. It’s— 

Ghoulam pulls him back and Dries gasps for breath. Then Ghoulam pushes him back onto his dick. Makes him take all of it again. “Fuck,” he says, rough and admiring, “Look at how good you take it. So—“ He starts fucking Dries’ mouth. Fast and hard. “So fucking good.” It’s rough and messy. Dries gags more than once and each time Ghoulam groans, guttural and low, like that’s what he gets off on the most, choking Dries with his dick. And Dries— 

Dries gets off on it. He gets hard. 

When Ghoulam comes, right down Dries’ throat, holding Dries close to make him swallow, Dries isn’t ready for it be over. He wants more, and more, and _more_. Just like this. Wants to be taken. Used so hard he can’t think. Until it’s all he can do to remember to breathe. 

He whines when Ghoulam lets him go. Marek squeezes his neck. And that helps, the press of Marek’s fingers against his pulse, the way he digs his fingers in hard enough to make Dries feel a little breathless. 

Ghoulam grabs Dries’ hair again, says, his voice wrecked and low, “You want more, ah, Mertens?” He jerks Dries’ head to left. “We—“ Maggio curls his hand around the back of Dries’ head. “Can give you more.”

Maggio pushes Dries forward and Ghoulam lets him go. Maggio grinds Dries’ face into Gabbiadini’s crotch. Gabbiadini gasps, maybe says Maggio’s name. He’s hard. “Get,” Maggio says, threading his fingers through Dries’ hair, “His dick out.” He pulls Dries back but not that far, so, when Dries pulls Gabbiadini’s shorts down, his dick smacks Dries in the face. Maggio tugs on Dries hair. “Put it in your mouth.” Dries reaches up but Maggio shakes Dries’ head. Gabbiadini’s dick smacks against Dries’ cheek. “No hands,” Maggio says, “Just your mouth.” He turns Dries’ head and Dries’ mouth slides along the side of Gabbiadini’s dick. Gabbiadini makes a low, inarticulate sound. “Come on,” Maggio says. 

Dries opens his mouth, drags his tongue along Gabbiadini’s dick. “Oh,” Gabbiadini says, “ _Oh_. Fuck.” Maggio’s still has a tight grip on him but Dries can just turn his head enough to let Gabbiadini’s dick slip into his mouth. He sucks hard on the head of Gabbiadini’s dick. “Fuck. _Christ_ ,” Gabbiadini gasps and his hips stutter forward, shoving his dick deeper into Dries’ mouth.

“That’s it,” Maggio says, pushing Dries farther down Gabbiadini’s dick, “Let’s see you take all of it.” Gabbiadini can’t keep still. His hips moving in stuttering jerks. The head of his dick bumping into the back of Dries’ throat. Dries gags. But Maggio holds him there until his eyes water then pulls him back. Dries gasps for breath first then turns his head and spits. The strings of saliva end up on him, sliding down his chest, not on the floor. Maggio turns Dries’ head back. “Ah-ah,” he says, “you’ve got to make him come.” Dries opens his mouth. Maggio pushes him back onto Gabbiadini’s dick. Maggio holds him there and Gabbiadini fucks his mouth with quick, uneven strokes, sometimes just barely pushing his dick into Dries’ mouth, sometimes pushing in so deep Dries chokes. He comes on one of the shallow strokes, pulling back as he does, spurting along Dries’ tongue, his lower lip. He gasps something, maybe Dries’ name, then stumbles back. 

Maggio’s grip goes slack for a second. Dries drops his head forward and spits the come pooled on his tongue onto the floor. He breathes, in and out, _in and out_. His throat is raw and each breath burns going down. He feels dizzy. Like it’s too much air all at once. Too much— Marek squeezes his shoulder. That steadies him. Marek’s hands on him always do. He feels like he’s buzzing. Like there’s a live wire under his skin setting off sparks. It’s a feeling that skirts close to pain but it’s a feeling that he _craves_. 

Maggio tightens his grip again and tips Dries’ head back up. Gabbiadini’s gone but Sepe’s there in his place. He has his dick out, his hand wrapped loosely around it. He smiles at Dries and reaches out to push Dries’ hair up off his forehead. “Hey, Mertens,” he says. 

Maggio turns Dries away from Sepe, towards him. He has his dick out too. “Open your mouth,” he says, pulling Dries forward. Dries opens his mouth. 

Maggio pushes him back and forth between him and Sepe until Dries can’t keep track of whose dick he has in his mouth. He just keeps his mouth open and takes what he’s given. His only constants are the warm weight of Marek’s hand on his shoulder and hard grip of Maggio’s hand in his hair. They keep him in place, keep him _here_ in this moment, keep him from getting totally lost. 

One of them comes on his face while the other still has his dick in Dries’ mouth. The come lands on his temple, his cheek, some slides into his ear. It doesn’t matter. He’s such a mess already. Maggio pulls him back. It’s his dick in Dries’ mouth. He turns Dries’ head. Someone else is there. Dries glances up. It’s Allan. Jorginho’s with him, his arm slung around Allan’s shoulders. But Allan’s the one with his dick out. 

When Maggio pushes Dries onto Allan’s dick, Allan reaches out and drags his fingers down Dries’ cheek, they catch on the corner of Dries’ mouth. 

Maggio takes him back. Shoves into Dries’ mouth, once, twice, then comes with a grunt. He holds Dries on his dick until his finished and for a moment afterwards. Dries swallows and waits. 

Maggio’s gentle when he pulls out of Dries’ mouth. He ruffles Dries’ hair and nudges him towards Allan. He pats Dries cheek. “Be good, ah? For Allan,” he says. Then he’s gone.

Allan curls his hand around the back of Dries’ head. “Come here,” he says. Dries goes. Turns a little so he’s facing Allan. Allan’s grip on him stays firm and he fucks Dries mouth but with quick, shallow strokes. He doesn’t seem interested in pushing Dries or making him take his whole dick into his mouth.

Jorginho watches, his eyes bright, cheeks flushed. He touches Dries a few times. Skims his fingers through Dries’ hair. Touches his fingertips to the stretched corner of Dries’ mouth. “You look,” he says, when he does it, voice hushed and a little rough, “So good like this, _hmm_ , Dries. So pretty.”

After Allan comes, he pats Dries’ head then backs away. Jorginho shifts so he’s right in front of Dries. He tips Dries’ chin up, cups his hand under Dries’ chin. Dries waits for him to get out his dick. To do _something_. “Do,” Dries says, finally, and the words come out gravelly-rough and broken, “You…”

Jorginho strokes his thumb along Dries’ cheek, rubs it across Dries’ mouth. “Can I—“ he says. He pauses. “Can I fuck you?” 

Dries doesn’t think about it he just says, “Yeah. Okay.” He’s not sure he’d say _no_ to anything right now. Jorginho smiles but Marek makes a low, interrogatory sound.

Dries tips his head back so he can look up at Marek. Jorginho’s hand slips off of him. Marek lets go of Dries’ shoulder and rubs his knuckles along Dries’ jaw. “You sure?” he says softly. 

“Yeah,” Dries says.

Marek stares down at him for a moment then he nods and says, “Okay.” He pats Dries’ cheek then says, to Jorginho, “Help him up.” 

Jorginho steps back a little and holds out his hands. It takes Dries a moment to lift his arms, it’s like he has to remember how they work first. He gets them up. They feel limp and almost out of his control but he gets them up. He wraps his hands around Jorginho’s wrists. He uses him as leverage to push himself up. It takes three tries. His legs ache and his shins are tingling from being pressed against the hard floor for so long. When he finally gets on his feet, he almost folds right back down to his knees. Marek wraps his arm around Dries’ waist and holds him up. He’s warm and solid against Dries’ back. Dries slumps against him. 

“Okay,” Dries says, “So, uh…” 

“I think—“ Marek says right as Jorginho says, “What if—“ 

Marek gently turns Dries so he’s facing the counter. “Like this,” Marek says, running his hand up Dries’ back then pressing lightly between Dries’ shoulder blades, “Okay?” Dries leans down onto the counter and braces himself on his elbows. He can hear the sharp, gasping sound Jorginho makes. “Yeah,” Marek says, running his hand down Dries’ spine, “Like this.” He pats Dries’ ass. “Ready?” he says.

“Yeah,” Dries says, “M’ready.” 

Marek pats his ass again then moves away. For a moment, Dries is just standing there, cold and exposed, no one’s hands on him, nothing in front of him but the wall, the edge of the counter digging into his stomach, and he— He just— 

Then Jorginho presses against him. Slides his hands up Dries’ sides and rubs against Dries’ ass. The fabric of his shorts is slippery-smooth against Dries’ skin. And it’s like Dries is back inside himself. Like he can feel again.

Jorginho steps back a little. He curls his hands around Dries’ ass, pulls his cheeks apart. Dries aches from earlier, can still feel the stretch from being fucked, can still feel the tacky remainders of lube and come on his ass and thighs. Jorginho presses his fingertips against Dries’ hole. Dries shudders a little. “You,” Jorginho says, low and a little wondering, “are…” He doesn’t finish the thought just traces his fingers up between the cheeks of Dries’ ass. 

Dries hears the snap of a bottle being opened then the squelch of it being squeezed. Jorginho presses his fingertips back to the same spot. They’re slick and little cold. Dries squirms a little. “Is it okay?” Jorginho asks. He’s already pushing his fingers inside Dries.

“Was just,” Dries manages, distracted by the press of Jorginho’s fingers inside him, “a bit cold. S’fine.”

“Ah,” Jorginho says, “Sorry.” He crooks his fingers inside Dries and, well, Dries doesn’t give a _fuck_ about the cold. 

“It’s, _ah,_ ,” Dries manages, “It’s— _Fuck_. S’fine.” 

Jorginho laughs a little. He’s fucking Dries with his fingers. It’s good but it mostly makes Dries rock his hips back looking for _more_ , for—

When Jorginho pulls his fingers out of Dries, Dries whines. “Just—“ Jorginho says, squeezing Dries’ hip. “Ah—“ Then Dries can feel the head of his dick nudging against Dries’ hole. Then he’s pushing inside of Dries, slow and steady, and saying, “ _Fuck_.” And the pleasure of being stretched and filled again is edged with quick-hot sparks of pain. But it’s good. So _good_. When he’s all the way inside Dries, Jorginho pauses. He leans down, gets as close as he can to Dries. “Okay?” he says.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Dries says, he wants to arch up into the heat of Jorginho’s body, wants to rock his hips back, “Yeah.” 

Jorginho pushes up. He curls his hands around Dries’ hips and starts to move. He starts out slow but it doesn’t last. He starts to pant and he moves a little faster. His palms slip on Dries’s skin. He digs his fingertips hard into Dries’ hips, holds on. Fucks Dries harder. It’s good. Pleasure curls, hot and urgent, in Dries’ belly, along his spine. Dries drops his head and presses his forehead against his hands. He pushes back, rocks into Jorginho’s thrusts, desperate for more.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Jorginho’s gasping now. His thrusts are getting choppier. “Dries, I—“ He comes inside Dries. He slumps against Dries. Heavy and warm along Dries’ back. Then he straightens up and pulls out of Dries. He pats Dries’ ass and then he’s gone. 

And Dries is left there panting, keyed up and desperate, rocking his hips back into nothing. But then Marek’s there, curling his hands around Dries’ hips, stilling him. “It’s me,” he murmurs.

_I know_ Dries tries to say, because there are two people’s touch he would know deaf and blind and Marek’s one of them, but nothing comes out except a low, broken whine. He tries again, tries to get the words out. He does but they’re not in Italian. He can’t remember those words, can’t— “Marek,” he says, “ _Marek_.”   
“ _Shh_ ,” Marek says, “I’ve got you,” and he pushes inside Dries. He fucks Dries slow and steady, and so _good_. “I’ve got you,” he says again, sliding his hand along Dries’ belly and curling it around his dick. “You want to come, baby,” he says, soft, just for Dries, “ _Hmm?_ ”

“Please,” Dries says, “ _Oh_ , Marek, _please_.”

“You can baby, okay?” Marek says. He tightens his fist around Dries’ dick and fucks him a little harder. Dries closes his eyes. “Come on,” Marek murmurs, “Come for me.” And Dries does. It feels like he’s breaking open, but Marek’s there, holding onto him, holding him together while he shakes apart. Then Marek comes, digging his fingers hard into Dries’ hip, and gasping out Dries’ name. And Dries opens his eyes.

Marek stays inside Dries until he goes soft and slips out. He pets Dries the whole time. Strokes his hands up and down Dries’ back and along his sides. It steadies Dries. “Are you ready,” Marek says, once he’s not inside Dries anymore, “To get up.” 

Dries takes a slow, deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, “Okay.”

He lets Marek pull him up, turn him around, mostly because he can’t really do it himself. Marek wraps his arm around Dries’ shoulders and says, “Hold onto me, okay?” Dries feels clumsy, like his own body isn’t listening to him, but he gets his arms around Marek’s middle. He knows his teammates are still there, are still watching him and Marek, but he doesn't look at them. “Let’s go,” Marek says, “Get you cleaned up, okay?” 

It’s slow going through the dressing room towards the showers. Dries’ legs ache and he can barely lift his feet. If Marek wasn’t holding onto him, wasn’t letting Dries lean against him, he’d have fallen a dozen times. Everyone they pass reaches out to touch Dries. His teammates ruffle his hair, touch his back, rub his shoulders, pat his ass. He feels a warm rush of affection for all of them. 

They make it to the showers and Marek props Dries against the wall and turns one of them on. Then he comes and gets Dries and they step into the shower. Marek’s still wearing his shorts and his jersey. Dries plucks at his jersey. “You’re still—“

Marek smiles a little and nudges Dries more fully under the spray. “I know,” he says, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The water’s warm. Dries turns his face up into it. He closes his eyes and lets the water stream over him. He sways a little. He’s still wobbly on his feet. His legs feel like jelly. Marek steadies him. “I’ve got you,” he says. He slides his hands down Dries’ sides and settles them on his hips. Dries reaches out blindly and smacks his hand into Marek’s chest. He fists his hand in Marek’s sopping wet jersey. 

“Marek,” someone - Pepe - says, just loud enough to be heard over the rush of the water, “I—“ 

Dries opens his eyes. Pepe’s standing just outside the shower. He’s holding something in his hands, behind him Dries can see his and Marek’s stuff in untidy heaps on one of the benches. Next to all of it is a stack of towels with some bottles of water on top. 

Pepe smiles. “Brought towels, water,” he says, “And, you know, all your shit.” 

“Thanks,” Marek says.

“Also,” Pepe says, shuffling closer and leaning into the shower to hold out what’s in his hand, “These.” Marek reaches out with one hand and grabs the stuff from Pepe. It’s a washcloth and shower gel. Dries recognizes the brand Marek favors. “Figured,” Pepe says, shrugging, “You might need them.” 

“Went through my stuff, huh?” Marek says. 

Pepe shrugs again and laughs a little. “Well, you know, wasn’t going to give you _my_ stuff.” 

Marek smiles. “Uh-huh. Thanks, though.” 

Pepe smiles. “It’s no trouble.” He shifts from foot to foot, like he wants to say something else, but he’s hesitating. Dries isn’t sure he’s ever seen Pepe do that - hesitate. “Dries,” he says, slow and faltering, “Ah, you— Are you okay?” 

“M’fine, Pepe,” Dries says, turning his head so he can look straight at Pepe, “Really.” It’s true enough. He smiles at Pepe as reassuringly as he can. 

Pepe looks him over. Then he smiles and says, “Okay. That’s— Okay.” He glances at Marek then back at Dries. “I’m just— Ah, see you both later, okay?”

“Bye, Pepe,” Marek says. 

Pepe grins and waves and then he’s gone.

Marek taps his thumb against Dries’ hipbone. “If I let go, you going to be okay?” 

Dries thinks so. Maybe. His legs are starting to feel steady again. But, as the high, the adrenaline seeps out of him, a bone-deep ache is settling into him. “Yeah,” he says, “S’fine.” He slowly unclenches his hand, lets go of Marek’s jersey. “See. M’good.” 

“Okay,” Marek says, “I just—“ He holds up the washcloth and the shower gel. “I want to clean you up a bit.” 

Dries reaches out. “Marek,” he says, “I can—“ 

Marek lets go of Dries’ hip and reaches up to cup his hand under Dries’ chin. “I want to,” he says, leaning in and brushing a kiss across Dries’ mouth, “Let me.” 

Dries licks his lips. He can taste water, warm and clean, on his lips, a contrast to the acrid-bitterness that lingers on his tongue. “Okay,” he says, “All right.” Marek smiles, rubs his thumb along Dries’ jaw, then leans in and kisses him again. 

Marek’s gentle and thorough. Dries closes his eyes and lets Marek turn him this way and that way. Lets him soap him up and and rinse him off. He breathes in the steam of the shower and familiar citrusy scent of Marek’s shower gel and lets himself be soothed by the warm touches of Marek’s hands. He winces a little when Marek gets to his ass. “Sorry,” Marek murmurs, pausing for a moment, “You okay?” 

Dries shrugs. He doesn’t open his eyes. “I will be.” 

“Okay,” Marek says and moves on to Dries’ thighs. 

When Marek’s done, he curves his hand along Dries’ cheek and says, “Open your eyes.” 

Dries opens his eyes. Marek smiles a little. “Ready to get out?” 

Dries could stay in the warm shower forever but he nods. “Okay”

Marek pats his cheek and reaches around him to switch off the water. It only takes a moment for the warm steam to dissipate. And then Dries is just cold and dripping wet. “C’mon,” Marek says, steering him out of the shower, “Let’s dry you off.” Marek dries him off with a gentle but brisk efficiency. Dries doesn’t even protest. He knows what Marek would say.

When Marek’s done, he drops the towel on the bench and picks up one of the bottles of water. Instead of handing it to Dries, he turns it over in his hands. “Was—” he says, looking down at the bottle and not at Dries, “Did you—“ He looks up. “Was it what you wanted it to be?” 

There are a lot of answers to that question. Some Marek would want to hear and some— 

“Yes,” Dries says because it’s the simplest of the answers and mostly true. 

Marek nods. “Okay,” he says. He hands Dries the bottle of water. “Have some water. Maybe get dressed. I’m gonna—“ He waves his hand at his soaking wet kit. 

Dries opens the bottle of water and takes a sip. “Okay,” he says. He drinks half the bottle then sets it on the bench and starts rooting around in the tangled mess Pepe’d left his stuff in. He finds his underwear. Gets them on. He finds his pants. When he bends and starts pulling them on, his whole body protests. It takes him a few minutes to get them on and, at first, the rough denim feels strange against his skin. 

He picks the bottle of water back up and chugs the rest of it then drops the empty bottle on the ground. It bounces once then rolls away. 

He fishes his sweater out next and painstakingly pulls it over his head. “Someone,” Marek says quietly, “Is going to tell him.” Dries pulls his sweater the rest of the way down. “Pepe, maybe,” Marek says, “Or Callejon.” 

Dries turns just enough so he can see Marek out of the corner of his eye. “Not you?” he says.

“Do you,” Marek says, his voice flat and hard, “want me to?” 

Dries bites down hard on his tongue so that he doesn’t say _yes_. Because Marek likes to give the people he cares about the things they want and hates to hurt them. “No,” Dries says and turns away. He leans down to pick up his shoes and his whole body protests the motion. He aches but he leans into the hurt. 

“Okay,” Marek says. He pauses. “Some one will though.” Dries shrugs. He hopes whoever does doesn’t leave out a single fucking thing. He hopes— “Dries,” Marek says, “Hey, Dries—“ He puts his hand on Dries’ shoulder. “Dries.” He tugs Dries around. “Come here.” 

Dries drops his shoes and lets Marek pull him close. He presses his face against Marek’s shoulder, into the clean, soft cotton of his shirt, and swallows the things he’ll never say. _I hope someone tells him and he chokes on it_. And, worse than that, so much worse than that. _I let most of our team touch me and all I can feel on my skin is his touch._. Marek rubs his hand up and down Dries’ back. 

“Can we—” Dries says, lifting his head, suddenly sick of all of it, of himself, of missing— “Just—Can we go?” 

“Yeah,” Marek says, “Okay.” 

“Can I,” Dries says, “Uh, I can stay with you?” 

“Yeah, Dries,” Marek says, pulling Dries close again, “You’re staying with me.” He’s holding Dries a little too tight but Dries doesn’t mind. “You’re staying with me,” Marek says again.


End file.
